Friday, December 7, 2012

We leave the story for a brief interlude and share the
latest interview with Murdoc. It’s a bad
phone connection that cuts in and out, as the wind has its way with the signal
as it reaches out to him in his exile across the winters emerald water. Again, some silly fool has taken interest in
his work and he suffers the intrusion with the usual aplomb. The fool trying to get something from him is
named Mike. He is an upstart writer and
is proud for hunting Murdoc down and cornering him for some time and words.

After a number of disconnects, dropped signals, they finally
connect with a clarity that is muddy at best, but purrfect for the exchange
that will occur.

What follows is an edited transcript.

Mike: So can you hear
me now?

Murdoc: Yuppers.

Mike: What? Was that a yes?

Murdoc: Yuppers. (pause)
Yes, I can hear you. Now what?

Mike: Sorry, you
keep breaking up and falling out. I…

Murdoc: That’s pretty
much the routine for me. But then the
Fort might have something to do with this as well. One road in and one cell phone tower, and
damned by God. We take turns making
calls out. The old guy up the street had
a stroke two days ago and his wife had to wait to call the volunteer fire
department until her neighbor had finished talking to her sister in Cleveland. Living here teaches us patience and what’s
really important.

Mike: So you live on
an island?

Murdoc: It will be
one day; and probably soon the way things are going. So, when are you going to get to the prepared
questions?

Mike: Okay. (pause)
But can I ask a couple of more questions off the list?

Murdoc: Sure, you get
two.

Mike: (pause, Mike
thinks hard and wants to make the best of this candid opening) So what’s your newest toy?

Murdoc. No toys right
now. Not in the cards.

Mike: From your work
we have heard and read about the Triumph, is it done?

Murdoc: That’s your
second question, and no, it’s still sitting in the living room, sulking like a spurned
child. But Christmas is coming and I’ll
wrap some lights around her and make her feel loved again.

Mike: Can I ask one
more off the script?

Murdoc: Yuppers, but
make it good. And that’s three.

Mike: So why haven’t
you written anything in the last two months?

There is no pause before he answers and the signal gets
stronger and suddenly clear.

Murdoc: I fell in
love, and then went fishing.

Mike: As a reader of
the HME Papers, this is clear, but could you explain?

Murdoc: Sure, but I
thought this interview was supposed to be about the Papers and the change in
the narrative and redirection of the experiment. Is it back-story that you want?

Mike: I was hoping
for a glimpse into the writers mind and how it is that you can just jump in and
out of the work? I don’t think I am
alone on this.

Murdoc: That’s six
unwelcomed questions now Mikey, and it should be noted that I am no writer.

Mike: Sorry, but why
the black out? Why the pause? It was just getting good.

Murdoc: The big
Rockfish came in season. They run when
the waters blend. The trophy’s gather up
and school and wait for the cold to draw them out of the Bay. It’s simple migration, “Hey Renata, its
getting cold let’s run south.” So fools
like me chase them. You’d be a fool not
to slowly glide the surface of the upside down black universe, knowing that
something great and beautiful is down deeper than you, waiting to rise and
fight you and then change you forever.

Mike: Are we talking
about fishing now or love?

Murdoc: Fishing
fool. You never kill love. But I have to say that fishing is love and
what you take from the water, if you are a good man, becomes a part of
you. Fishes? Loaves?
It’s all killing. But appreciate
the gift and understand where it is coming from.

Mike: So can I ask
about love? It seems that you have found
love, a profound love.

Murdoc: Great
love. The only love. A love I have chased and waited for, for as
long as I have ever been.

Mike: So the new character in the HME Papers is real?

Murdoc: Yuppers, and
she has a great ass.

Mike: So again, you are
writing fiction and non-fiction at the same time?

Murdoc: Are you
saying her ass isn’t great? Them’s
fighting words. But seriously, It’s
always been real. It just seems like I
made the whole thing up. I mean, I’ll be
honest, if I read this shit, I would have a hard time believing this crap was
real. But it is. And the few times I go back and read this, I
still find it all unbelievable.

Mike: So she’s a
writer?

Murdoc: Best writer I
know. The woman can write soft white
circles around the moon, that make you smell snow, and light your way home on a
cold winter’s night.

Mike: So is it
strange to both be writers?

Murdoc: Nope, ‘cause
I’m not a writer. I can only speak for
me, but I think she feels this as well…We inspire each other. She is trained and I am a rough animal. I learn something new from her ever day and I
know my writing gets better. The best
part will be when she is done with her studies and finally has the time to edit
all my shit and make me look all edjumacated and smartzie.

Mike: Will she change
you stylistically?

Murdoc: She already
has. I don’t wear tapered jeans anymore.

Mike: I meant as far
as writing?

Murdoc: Of course she
has. She has raised the bar. I fell in love with her words and the way she
gathered them together and set them to flight.
She has a natural gift, and yet has worked so very hard to hone this
craft that she has taken as her own.
Anyone can sharpen a stick into a crude spear, only a few know how to
heat steel, temper it, sharpen it, and create a potential, threatening
beautiful weapon. That’s what great
writing is. My gal has a gift.

Mike: I’ll be honest,
I figured out who she was and read her work.
It’s stunning.

Murdoc: Good for
you. It’s not hard to find her, us,
we’re out here, and I pass along a thank you from her for appreciating her
work. We try to hide and protect our
intellectual and creative children, but we are proud of them and take great pride
when they come home with good marks. Her
baby is in the “gifted and talented program,” mine is still licking bus windows
and laughing at farts.

Mike: (laughing) So what’s next?

Murdoc: We get
married, I settle into “soft alcohol middle age” and she punches fools in the
face with important ideas and words.

Mike: So no more
writing for you?

Murdoc: Hey Diptard,
I have to keep writing. I have to. When I stop, the story ends; but sometimes
the call of the black water, and its lull of tide, take’s precedence over words
and ideas. Sometimes, it’s nice to just
rise and fall upon the universe’s pull, and let the black waters run deep and
through you....(pause, cell phone signal starts to break up) Until you’re ready, and then you dig in and
start wrestling with words once again.
(pause, last sentence almost imperceptible) That makes no fucking sense, but what the
fuck is writing anyway?

Mike: I’m losing you.

The signal fades and breaks upon the heavy wind that has
rolled over the Fort.

Mike: Can you hear
me?

Murdoc: Yuppers,
sorta. This is purrfect.

Mike: (heavy
static) One last question…

Murduc: Go ahead.

Mike: Who is she?

The radio signal glows strong and the lights over the Fort
surge bright for a brief moment. The
street light next to the post office will vibrate under the push of soft amber
to blinding white heat and light, and then burst.